


On the Side of the Angels

by stravaganza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Wings, Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, Eventual Sex, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slow Burn, Virgin!Sherlock, Wingfic, Winglock, the sex happens a long way into the fic, top!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man looking for the truth. A soldier with nothing left. A kingdom on the brink of destruction, and only they can save it from losing the War. But of course, it won't be that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, hope there aren't many mistakes. Otherwise, don't hesitate to point them out! Enjoy.

Travelling so long without being noticed would be hard for everyone, even for Sherlock Holmes, but he had decided a long time ago that if he had any chance, that was in London. Only London could provide itself big enough to both hide him and enlighten him.

Sussex wasn’t that far away, but neither as close as many thought, especially when travelling by feet, in the deep of the night, and with a satchel full of as much food and money he had managed to snatch from under one brother’s nose.

Not in summer anyways, when nights were shorts and days far too long, the air too damp and the inns too packed. Camping in the forest wasn’t a problem, but when the trees started to give way to sparse countryside landscapes, with vast fields and few houses, he started having problems to find safe places to rest. At least he knew he was getting close to the city, as these must have been the fields that refurnished London’s markets, and of course these were the walls of the city he was approaching.

After five days of walking, with his supplies running short, Sherlock finally found himself in front of the tall gates when it was almost dawn. He readjusted the ample cape over his shoulders, rolling them with an annoyed noise and a pained face, before he could finally enter the city when the sun had finally took its place in the sky.

The guards stopped him to inquire his reasons for entering town, and he simply explained he had come to study. Which was true, in a way; he had nothing left to learn from his tutors, brother and his mansion’s library. They didn’t ask further, trusting his aristocratic looks, possibly thinking he was a scholar of some sort, surely thinking he wasn’t a threat for London. Sherlock also thanked his accent: had he been from the north of the country, he probably wouldn’t be allowed to proceed over, and let’s not even consider what they could have done to him had he been a French scholar. Not even monks dared to come here from down there, not with the perpetual state of war between their country and England. As, of course, didn’t dare Scotsmen.

But this wasn’t his problem at all. Right now he had to find a place to sleep, possibly not a church, preferably not a shelter, and definitely not a hospital. An inn would do it for one night, but of course he would have to be careful on how he spent his remaining money. Food, first of all. Clothes, then; the ones he brought from home would stop being useful as soon as autumn rolled by, with his multiple clouds and cold winds.

He would need a job, of course, but he would have to council it with his studies. And, as said, entering a church to have enough sustainment to be a scholar, without having to worry about neither work nor food, was out of the question. Sherlock had never been particularly religious, and he stopped being fond of churches and priests at a very early age. This was, as soon as he couldn’t hide what he was with ease.

Sherlock kept walking until he reached the center of the town, and lost himself for a moment as he admired the Royal Palace. Of course his family had been there. He himself had entered the palace more than once, on an official invitation’s annual basis, but he stopped as soon as he could manage, hiding in the soils around his childhood home until he was sure his family would stop looking for him. It wouldn’t have been any good for the King to see him, and his parents would rather show him off or want to keep him secret. He preferred the company of the bees he found in his favourite hollow tree anyways, and enjoyed spending these days alone with them.

When his parents died, Mycroft took hold of both the Holmes’ estate and fortune, as it was in his elder son’s rights. Once he started visiting the King alone, it took him no time to get an official role as his counselor. Sherlock wondered whether now he was alone he would consider moving to London permanently, keeping the Sussex property as a place to spend his lazy summers. Of course, when they weren’t in a time of war. If that was the case, he would have to be even more careful than he thought about being caught. No doubt his brother would want to bring him back home, to protect him. Sherlock could take care of himself very well, thank you and goodbye.  
  
Sherlock resumed his walk until he found a rather nice looking inn near the center of the town, which of course meant its prices would be higher than the norm, but he smirked to himself. The state of the rooms he spotted from the window told him he was in the right place. A thick stratum of dust on the glasses told him there was no one working there other than the inn-keeper, and he would need help if he hoped to keep the place going.

Looking around, Sherlock recalled to his memories the maps he had seen of the town’s intricate maze of large streets and narrow alleys, and estimated this place would be more or less five hundred meters from one of the town’s hospital, and more than a kilometer or so from the biggest library he knew he would find in London. A church’s one, yes, but of course no one else would be interested in books of all things. After all, one couldn’t eat books, or plow them, nor breed them to be later sold.

With another look at the illiterate mass of villagers, Sherlock entered the inn and was immediately greeted by a middle-aged man, who smiled broadly at him and started talking with the thickest accent Sherlock had ever heard. It was similar to Latin, but not entirely close; Spanish? No, more likely… Italian?

“Welcome, welcome Sir! Would you like a room for the night, or the week? We have the best cuisine in town, modestly, and as you might have noticed the inn is located right at the center of London!” the man said almost too loudly for Sherlock’s likings, so that he raised a hand to stop his futile chattering.

“No need to keep this up. From the state of the inn I can see no one else works here, probably because the pay is too low or because the last employees had to leave to fight the war in the North.” he said flatly, enjoying the surprised expression on the inn-keeper. “I have a deal to propose. I will work here for as long as I will stay in London, in exchange of a room and a meal a day. I believe with a little effort, this place will be ready to host dozens of clients again very soon.”

The man behind the dirty counter thought about it for a moment, clearly looking for some sort of trap, so Sherlock kept speaking.

“I’m a scholar from the South, and I need a job, a room and regular nourishment. Therefore, what I am offering is not at all inconvenient. I will follow whatever schedule you offer me, as long as I have free time in the mornings or afternoons to keep my studies going.”

Still, the man seemed skeptic, and eyed Sherlock’s heavy cape suspiciously.

“Why aren’t you asking shelter to a church, if you are a scholar like you claim to be?” he asked, before gesturing a cross over his body. Oh, of course. Italy, the Pope, very religious. “You aren’t one of the infidels that walk among these streets, are you?”

Refraining from rolling his eyes, Sherlock shook his head and patiently explained. “I don’t want to depend on some church in particular. As you seem to know, there are contrasting cults that would prevent my research from being complete with both their documents.”

Another look at the cape, the man pointed at it. “And you aren’t hiding anything?”

“No.” came the firm reply.

And it was true, in a certain way. Sherlock wasn’t hiding anything dangerous weapon, nor plotting against the Crown, or the country. He was only after the truth. In the end the man seemed convinced of this, and offered his agreeing hand with a smile.

“Alright, then. You can work here at your conditions, but if you won’t do a good job I’m afraid I will have to throw you out!” he said cheerfully as Sherlock shook his hand and returned a tight smile to him.

“Of course.”

“You can take the second’s floor room, last one down the hallway- Ah, what was your name?”

“I haven’t said it. I’m Sherlock.” he didn’t say his last name, even knowing that no one would know his family. They weren’t influent, and their noble title was lost back in time. And of course, he knew he wouldn’t let himself get noticed. “Yours?”

“Angelo.”

Ah, of course. A name meaning ‘angel’.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You can start working immediately, but I see you are just arrived. Make yourself comfortable and go talk to whoever it is scholars go talk to.” Angelo said with an understanding smile, and the surprise at his offer must have been clear over Sherlock’s face because the man was laughing.

“Thank you.” he said sincerely, before smiling a bit more naturally as he left the inn again.

“And be careful, London is more dangerous than Southern towns!”

Obviously. Sherlock nodded and waved goodbye, resuming his walk through London’s street. Where should he go first? He decided for the hospital, far closer and definitely more appealing than any church will ever be to him.

He scanned again his mental pages of maps and decided the shortest route to Saint Bartholomew’s hospital, deciding to avoid the alleys as long as he wouldn’t be able to wander through them without consulting any piece of paper, real or not.

As early as it was in the morning, the streets weren’t very populated yet, and Sherlock could enjoy the unusual calm and quiet of London, knowing well that this silence was different from the country’s, and wouldn’t last long. Sherlock turned a few corners, striding surely towards the hospital on still empty streets. Only one man was coming in his direction, but he was still so far away Sherlock wouldn’t even worry about him, even less since he was leaning on a crutch and limping visibly.

He lifted his gaze for a moment, but it was enough.

Sherlock heard running footsteps behind him and in the short time he took him to turn around his satchel had been ripped from his shoulder. He groaned in pain and started following the young boy, noticing his poor conditions, which however didn’t give him the permission to rob him. But he was more used to running on London’s streets, and even without shoes he was leaving Sherlock far too much behind.

That’s when something unexpected happened. The limping man took his crutch and shoved it in front of the boy, who helplessly tripped over it before finding himself pinned to the ground in what must have been a military hold. The young lad started struggling, but the man on his back, an experienced soldier, didn’t let him go. When Sherlock caught up with the pair of them, the boy was on his feet again, and the soldier smacked his rear with his crutch while his other hand held Sherlock’s satchel.

“And don’t do it again!” the man yelled at him, before turning and almost bumping into a heavy breathing Sherlock.

“That would be mine.” he said, and the man seemed stunned for a moment.

When he came back to his senses, he shook his head lightly and handed him his satchel back.

“Oh, yes, sure, of course. Um, sorry.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Why should you apologize? You retrieved my things, and I’m sure you would have returned my possessions anyway. You look honest enough.”

“Well, thanks I suppose.” he said with a small, flattered smile. “I’m John. Watson.” he continued.

“Sherlock. Holmes.” This time, he reluctantly added his surname to avoid being impolite, and therefore suspicious to an English soldier who wouldn’t hesitate to put his name on a list of suspects. Of what, he couldn’t know.

Sherlock stretched out his hand to take his satchel, but he groaned when the movement caused him some pain. It was the shoulder the thief had pulled onto, after all. Immediately, the other’s face became worried.

“You okay? Let me check, I’ve seen lots of contusions on the battlefields…” he started, his hand resting gently over Sherlock’s shoulder, but he shrugged him off.

“I’m fine.” he hissed, and the look in John’s eyes told him he now was officially suspicious.

“Come on, it will take a moment. It’s too warm for that cape anyways, isn’t it?” he asked, pulling at Sherlock’s collar again.

When Sherlock tried to move back, ready to run away from this crippled soldier, he found both his hands on his collar, the _thud_ of the falling crutch faint as if in the distance as John yanked down his cape. He was so fast and unexpected that Sherlock couldn’t do as much as bend his elbows to prevent the heavy fabric from falling to the ground, but a tad too late.

The cape fell to the ground with a soft noise, and Sherlock could feel his wings reflexively spread wide open after so much restraint, looking for some comfort.

John’s features were a mask of conflicting emotions, stupor above all others, and Sherlock took this opportunity to grab John’s right arm and pull him in the closest, dark alley. He slammed him against the nearest wall, hiding in the shadows, but the man was still so transfixed by his black wings that he didn’t as much as groan from the pain.

After a moment he seemed to notice Sherlock’s pale eyes on his face, and his mouth closed with an audible _click_ , followed by a swallowing sound.

“I’m so sorry, I thought you were harmed, and… Oh my God…” John started, before he seemed to realize something. “Oh Lord!” he said again, in fact, more loudly. Sherlock shoved him against the wall, moving back towards the opposite one.

“No.” he said, too late.

The soldier was already on his knees, his hands joined in a praying position and his eyes closed as his mouth stumbled over too complex words to be right. He stopped his Latin prayer, probably knowing the language didn’t fit him, and opted for a simpler one in English, as if he didn’t want to irate the deity that appeared right before his eyes.

“Stop it.” Sherlock hissed, feeling the urge to kick him. He adjusted his cape back on, folding his wings under its fabric.

John looked up after a moment of hesitation, before Sherlock pulled him back to his feet.

“You’re wrong.” he stated, even before the man could talk.

“I won’t tell anybody!”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“An angel of the Lord appears before me and there is nothing to say?”

“I’m not an angel.”

“But you-…”

“I know, so shut up!”

This quieted the soldier, and therefore calmed Sherlock.

“If I were an angel I would heal your shoulder, don’t you think?” he asked before he could stop himself, cursing when John’s face opened in another stupefied expression.

“How could you know, weren’t you an angel?” he asked, yanking down the wool of a thin shirt he was wearing to show a bandaged wound.

“By the way you moved your arm.” he said, looking around nervously. “Stiffly. Clearly a recent wound from the war in the North. An arrow?”

“A spear.” the soldier replied quietly, covering the gauze again.

Of course it was a spear.

“See, I didn’t know that, now leave me alone.” Sherlock said, heading out of the alley, but a trembling pair of hands clasped his sleeve. He turned around, with a groan and an annoyed expression that seemed to cause the man to shrink. “I know you are a soldier by the way you blocked the thief.” he said courtly, yanking his arm away.

But John shook his head, body still trembling lightly. Fear? No, in his eyes… Devotion. And joy. Sherlock opened his mouth again to debate, but John was faster.

“If you’re not an angel, how come you healed my leg?” he asked, and this time it was Sherlock’s turn to close his mouth with a _click_ of his teeth. He then proceeded to frown, and took a step back.

Hesitantly, but surely not limping anymore, John mirrored it. Sherlock backed away of another three steps, that John followed easily. He wanted to run away just to test him, but he knew it wouldn’t solve anything.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked instead.

“Nobody knows. After I’ve been nearly impaled I fainted, and the doctors said it’s probably an internal damage. Like a horse falling on me or something.” he answered with a broad smile. “But look, now! I walk! You-!”

“No!” Sherlock hissed again, slapping his hand over John’s mouth. But the man didn’t stop from talking with his eyes, devotion and religious fervor almost devouring these irises. He genuinely thought he was an angel, and that he had cured him. Absurd.

When Sherlock understood he wouldn’t try to talk again, he removed his hand and straightened his back. Looking around, he noticed the streets started to be a bit fuller of people. It must have been market hour.

“Forget ever meeting me.” he said to John, before pulling his collar up. He would surely nod and run in a church for a prayer.

“How could I?” was the surprising answer.

Sherlock stared at him and turned towards the crowd coming from the direction he had to take, hoping to lose him in the throng of people. But he was higher than most, too clearly visible for him, and he kept following until they were in front of the hospital.

“Are you here to cure more people?” he asked, a childish smile over his face.

“No.”

“Can you fly?”

“Clearly not.”

“Are you from Heaven?”

“I’m from Sussex!”

The supposed never ending series of questions came to an end after Sherlock snapped, and John stood quietly next to him for a moment. How to convince him he was wrong, Sherlock wondered with a sigh. And then an idea hit him when a ray of sun hit a knife secured to John’s belt, which blade seemed to glint in response at him.

“Give me your knife.” he demanded, holding out his hand.

After a moment of hesitation, John obeyed and Sherlock did anything but hesitate when he pressed the cool metal against his left index’s fingertip, slicing the skin enough to elicit a drop of blood. John gasped and his eyes widened, to Sherlock’s satisfaction.

“Angels don’t bleed.” he said bluntly, offering the knife back. But again, John acted against his expectations.

The soldier took his hand and turned it around, kissing his knuckles in yet another show of devotion. When he looked up his eyes seemed to glow with understanding, and Sherlock didn’t need to hear to know they were utterly wrong.

“You have a mission on Earth and you took a human form to accomplish it. This makes you as vulnerable as any other of us!” he seemed to lighten up at the revelation. Sherlock’s groan caused him to frown, and look down at the finger when the blood’s droplet fell to the dry dirt of London’s streets. Then he seemed to realize, but Sherlock didn’t dare himself to hope.

“Oh.” John said, widening his eyes. “Oh! I see! A demon had you confined in a human body and you’re looking for a way to come back home! That’s why your wings are black!”

Sherlock yanked his hand back, shaking his head. He had no intention to waste his breath to prove this idiot wrong. He simply turned and started climbing up the hospital’s steps, but again John’s hands were clasping his sleeve. Sherlock didn’t look back.

“The only thing I know is that you are vulnerable, and you healed my leg. Whatever you are, I swear on my honour I will protect you.”

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock looked over his shoulder at that short man. A soldier homed from the army, who helped people getting into fights in the streets and offering to protect them with his life. A short man, with nothing left but his honour to swear upon. Pursing his lips, Sherlock nodded briefly, and the smile on John’s face told him he would never get rid of him now.


	2. Chapter 2

John followed Sherlock up the few steps to the hospital’s main door, standing close to him as he looked around the entrance.

This first room was well lighted by a set of huge windows, and Sherlock could clearly see a vast staircase right in front of the door that must have taken to the upper accommodations, where patients in need of recovery could rest. The structure was big, but not well organized. A man that seemed to be a guard stood next to the entrance, and a high number of doctors, healers and nurses went in every direction to attend their patients. Still, Sherlock could see that large part of theme were waiting in the lateral hallways, the worse one sitting on some wooden benches while the others were on the floor, massaging aching body parts or rubbing at old wounds.

Clearly, most of them were soldiers sent back from the Northern front, like John. Then there were pregnant women, old trembling men, and young child in need of more food.

“These people need your help.” Came the quiet comment from John, promptly ignored by Sherlock. Yes, they were suffering, but again, he couldn’t do anything about it.

Now. Who was in charge of this place?

“John!” a female voice startled Sherlock, who frowned as he turned over. A small woman with long, brown hair was approaching them, and it caught Sherlock’s eyes that she was wearing trousers. Very unusual for her gender.

“Molly!” he called back, waving at her.

They seemed to be around the same age, probably childhood friends, but Sherlock said nothing about the matter. The two chatted a bit, to Sherlock’s annoyance, but he forced his attention on their conversation when he heard her surprised question.

“What happened to your leg? You are walking normally!”

“Ah, I have no idea! I woke up this morning at it was all gone!” John replied, sounding so sincere that Sherlock refrained a smirk. “I suppose praying does help a bit.” he added though, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“So, your shoulder too…?”

“No, unfortunately, but I was already blessed, wasn’t I?”

“Well, you were blessed the moment that spear missed your heart!” she giggled, and John echoed her.

Did she have medical knowledge?, Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder. Finally, Molly seemed to notice that he wasn’t standing there with them without a reason. Or at least, this was his conclusion when he heard John introducing him.

“This is Sherlock, he just arrived in town. I helped him earlier, a thief tried to rob him… And we were going in the same direction, since I wanted to show you my small miracle!” he said patting his leg.

“There must be an angel looking over you.” she said, signing the cross like Angelo did. John mimicked her, and Sherlock pretended not to notice. But then she looked at him, and smiled in the unequivocal way that showed interest. “And you were lucky to meet John, too. He’s a wonderful friend.”

“Yes, well. I already owe him.” he said, and before John could deny he looked her over. “Is there an archive of patients I can consult?”

The request caused the girl to frown deeply, and she looked at John concerned. “He’s a scholar. He’s doing a research of some sort.” he explained with an easy smile, and that seemed to calm Molly enough to answer.

“Well, no, nobody keeps a register of patients, I’m sorry… Are you looking for a relative?” she asked.

“Sort of. A very old one.” Sherlock said coldly, spinning on the heels of his leather boots as he started heading for the entrance, the cape trailing after him. He could hear John and Molly still chatting animatedly, and hoped the soldier would remain there. Instead, his voice called for him.

“Sherlock, wait! There is an archive!”

When the taller man turned, interested, and John smiled at him as he talked.

“Molly is the mortician’s daughter, and her father keeps a list of his patients, to say. You said you were looking for an old relative… Maybe his name is there?”

For the first time, Sherlock thought that perhaps having John with him wouldn’t be a disadvantage. After all he did need someone who knew the place and people, didn’t he?

“If your father reported the details of the corpses, then yes. I could use them.” he said, forcing a gentler smile on his lips. From the blush on Molly’s cheeks, he knew that tactic worked better than the last, cold-shoulder one.

“Oh, well, I don’t know, dad doesn’t want to…” she started, but Sherlock looked at her with a pleading gaze and a sort of hopeful smile, biting his lips. The colour on her face increased, and she started to giggle. “I don’t see why not!” she managed to say in the end.

Sherlock exulted and held out his hands to grab Molly’s between his and shake it, for emphasis, but her eyes spotted something else.

“Your finger.” she said simply, pointing at it.

Sherlock stared at his hand for a moment. He had forgotten about it already, and he couldn’t care less, but soon he found a thin strip of clean gauze being wrapped around it by agile fingers, the ones of a doctor. He frowned when he looked up and these were Molly’s hands; a female doctor? Very unusual, even for London’s standards. She seemed to see his doubts, because she smiled a little, looked somewhat flattered.

“My dad is also a doctor. Taught me some things.” Molly explained. “Soon I will start to study as a healer, too.”

John must have known that detail, but he was so awfully quiet that Sherlock had to turn in his direction to be sure he was still present. And he was, his gaze fixed over his bandaged pad. Clearly either there was something bothering him or he was coming up with another idea. Brilliant, as if Sherlock didn’t already have a bodyguard he didn’t need.

“Would you mind to teach me, too? Just basic things.” he said quickly at Molly’s surprised expression. “I have already seen my share of wounds on the battlefields, and I’ve never been able to do much. Except for instinctual reactions, that is. I would like to learn some basics. Just, you know, to feel less useless now that I can’t even fight.”

In that moment, Sherlock understood something more about that short man. His vow to protect him was now probably his only reason of life. Nothing left but his honour to swear upon, Sherlock remembered, and now somewhat of a debt he thought he had towards him.

There was a moment of silence during which Molly seemed to reach the same conclusion, because she nodded and murmured a soft ‘yes’ that almost sounded apologetic. Then, she seemed to regain her composure and turned again towards Sherlock.

“The morgue is here in the hospital, but it’s not a nice place. We mostly keep the… Bodies there until someone comes to claim them, which doesn’t happen very often. Father keeps the archive at home, but he is probably out at the moment. He’s one of the few doctors who can still afford to pay home visits, you know, not having much to do with his patients at the morgue, and since the ones here are all too occupied with the men coming back from the war he offered to help. Not expert like the people here, but he’s very capable.” she explained.

Sherlock nodded to show he was following her monologue, while, actually, he just wanted the woman to hurry up and show him what he needed to know. As if getting the hint, Molly guided Sherlock and John out the hospital, the two of them in the head as the taller man observed his surroundings to be sure, in case of need, to find the Hooper’s house without her or John’s guidance.

Once in front of the small house, Molly guided them inside and showed Sherlock her father’s study: the room itself was big, probably the largest of the house, with shelves packed with books and cases, and a desk overflowing with papers. As it came out, the Hooper’s family was traditionally one of morticians, and Molly didn’t seem intentioned to stop the cycle just yet. However, what mattered to Sherlock was that their archives went back in time for at least four or five generation of dead people, which was probably everything he needed.

He started rummaging through the documents on the desk without as much as a thank, his expression one of such deep concentration that neither John nor Molly seemed intentioned to bother him, and they decided to retire in front of the fireplace so she could start showing John how to do simple bandaging.

Time rolled by, and after one hour of nothing Sherlock started to grow more and more frustrated. He started from the earliest documents he managed to find, dating one hundred years in the past, and from then he moved forward, reading name over age over cause of death as quickly as he could, but neither of the people he found scheduled there had what he was looking for: wings. He groaned in frustration and considered giving up on this waste of time, deciding then to keep going. After all, there were just another couple of years to check.

As he skipped down the seemingly endless list of names, one in particular caught his attention. Or rather, three.

“Harry Watson – 58 – plague”

“Johanna Redford-Watson – 52 – plague”

“Harriet Watson – 34 – plague”

Dated two years earlier, about the time when the war rolled by. He could almost see it. The desperation, the sense of loss, the question: _why only me, couldn’t you spare them too?_ , asked to a deity that wasn’t even there. The faith wavering, the war. Feeling useless, needing to prove the world wrong, wishing to fight. Then the wound, a spear through his body that nearly killed him. Faith reinforced, tenfold. A misunderstanding: _I am needed here._ Was that what John Watson thought? That his mission was that of protecting one Sherlock Holmes from any menace?

Sherlock put the papers down and turned towards the living room, where that small, scarred man sat smiling as he showed Molly the knots he learned in the army on thin strips of gauze. By doing so, he failed to notice the other door in the room opening: a second entrance he ignored at first, when the need to ravish the papers was so strong he could barely contain himself, but that now had his full attention as he tensed up to stare at the tall, old man entering the study. No need to ask, he knew who that was.

“I apologize for indiscreetly reading your work paper, but in all honesty I hoped to be out before you would return, doctor Hooper.” he said calmly, straightening from his bent position over the desk.

After a moment of hesitation, the man’s thick eyebrows relaxed as he smiled. “Call me Malcolm.”

Sherlock nodded as the doctor left a leather bag on the desk. “Sherlock Holmes. It’s a pleasure.”

The name seemed to rang a bell in his head, but nothing he could grasp right away, or his expression would have gave that away.

“I suppose my daughter let you in… She could never resist blue eyes.” the man smiled. “Looking for a relative?” he asked, just as Molly had.

“Not really. I would like to exchange some words with you in private, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, this is as private as you can get. And you deserve to get, since you are putting your nose in someone else’s business.” Malcolm pointed out, eyeing the papers still in his hands.

Sherlock let them go and watched the doctor move around the room to sit in an armchair. “So. What is it you’re after?”

“Information.”

“That much was obvious.” Malcolm said, and Sherlock smirked.

“About a rare phenomenon that I heard manifested itself in London.”

“Which his?”

Now, the moment of truth. “I’ve heard that there are people who are born with wings.”

The doctor folded his hands over his lap and considered the statement for a while. “I believe that if such things were possible, the church would have made a fuss about them already.” he said in the end. “No parent would want to keep such thing secret to them. Clergymen tend to be quite… Convincing, when they need to, and no person afraid of God would hide if his son was some sort of angel.”

“Yes, I know. Which is why I am visiting their archives after this. I went to the hospital at first, hoping to find a living one, but knowing such people actually exists, or rather existed, would already be a victory.”

“Which is why you’re here, yes. Well, I’m sorry to tell you that I have never seen such a phenomenon. You could try other morticians and doctors, though. There is a man, family friend. He travelled the world after the King, few years ago. He might know better than me. Mike Stamford is his name, you can ask John, he knows him. And I believe he will bring you to him.”

“Do you?” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow sarcastically.

“Oh, yes. I haven’t heard him laugh this easily in years.” Malcolm said, eyes glinting in understanding behind his spectacles.

After a moment, the doctor gestured him closer, and when Sherlock obliged Malcolm pointed at a piece of paper carefully nailed on the wall, enclosed between a wooden board and a thin glass. It was another death certificate, like the lots he had just scanned, and read:

“Mary Redford-Hooper – 25 – Giving birth”

“That’s my wife, Molly’s mother and John’s aunt. John’s family helped us after our loss, and after the plague Molly and I tried to do the same for him. But he left for the war instead, and we didn’t even hope to see him again. After two year, here he is, coming back with a whole set of new wounds, and not just physical, mind you. All this time, and this is the first time he laughs like that.”

Sherlock turned towards the living room again, where Molly was watching a rather flustered John trying to free himself from a binding she knotted expertly around his wrists. They were both laughing.

“I know it’s not what you were looking for, but still accept this piece of knowledge. Whatever you did today, when you met him, you brought back a part of him that we thought lost. Thank you for it, and please, try to be careful with his soul: it can only take so many blows before scattering.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes still fixed on the man, who turned towards him and smiled, half playfully and half apologetically, as if saying that in case he was tied up he wouldn’t be able to protect him. Suddenly, Sherlock found a name to the thing that he felt in his chest when he deduced John’s actions in consequence to his family’s death, and it was respect. “I will.”

“Good.” Malcolm said, before standing up. “Before you go, let me guess. You are not trying to find out if winged people exist, are you?”

This unsettled Sherlock, who turned again and frowned at the man. Once again, his eyes glinted.

“No, you are looking for someone else, someone like you. Am I right?”

A pause, perhaps too long, before Sherlock shook his head and barked a laugh. “This is absurd.”

Malcolm chuckled and shrugged slowly. “I suppose. But, John has only one thing left, and that’s faith. I don’t think many things could cause him to be that happy anymore.”

“I suppose it’s because his limp disappeared.” he retorted.

“Ah, I see. A miracle!” Malcolm said cheerfully, and Sherlock wished people would stop referring at it like that, though he had no idea what had happened.

“Indeed.”

“If such things exist, of course.” Malcolm gestured towards the door, dismissing Sherlock. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. Feel free to come back anytime, and don’t worry about your secret, it’s safe with me.”

“What secret?” Sherlock inquired, tensing up and causing the old doctor to chuckle again.

“The fact that you have wings, of course. Will you let me see them, one day?” he asked in a mock-prayer tone.

And Sherlock could only smirk at that. “Yes. When my body will be on your table.” he said, and Malcolm laughed.

“Dad!” Molly smiled when she heard him. “I didn’t hear you coming back… I hope it’s okay if Sherlock-” she started, but her father raised a hand and she immediately stopped talking.

“Yes, he explained to me, dear. No problem at all, don’t worry. John, I’ve heard your leg is feeling better.” he said, addressing to the soldier, who stood up with his hands still tied.

“Oh yes, very! I feel ready to go back to the battlefield!” he joked.

“You wouldn’t last very much with that shoulder and your hands tied together.” Sherlock considered, raising an eyebrow.

John seemed more flustered by the fact that the comment came from him than anything, but he kept on a stoic face and a gentle smile. “Well, I suppose I would be a good hostage, at least.”

Despite himself, Sherlock found himself refraining a small smile, and shrugged. “Let’s go, John, you need to introduce me to Mike Stamford.”

“Mike? Yes, but… I think he’s still out the North at the moment. Near the battlefields.” John said, frowning in confusion.

“I assume you didn’t find what you were looking for?” Molly asked, and Sherlock sent her a look.

“Obviously not. When will he be back?” he asked John, who seemed to think about it.

“I believe he said by the half of the month. Which is in two weeks, if I’m not wrong.”

Sherlock considered it. Well, meanwhile he could start researching in the town’s churches.

“Alright. I will have other things to do until then.” he said, and John’s eyes told him he was ready to follow him closely. For the first time, Sherlock didn’t find it annoying.

He turned towards Malcolm and held out his hand. “Doctor Hooper, it’s been a pleasure. Thank you for your time.”

The old man shook his hand and returned a nod. “No problem, mister Holmes. You know where to find me, in case you’ll need anything else.”

“I will. Molly, thanks for your assistance.” he said, smiling at the young woman, who once again blushed delicately.

“Come along, John.” Sherlock said, heading out of the house. He heard a snap of fabric and hurried ‘goodbyes’, and soon John was by his side again.

“I see you managed to free your hands.” he stated, without even looking. John laughed at that, but said nothing.

They proceeded in silence until they were back to the hospital, and Sherlock kept going towards his inn.

“Is there anything else you need to do? Or would you like me to show you around town?” John asked, his shorter legs almost skipping on the trail of Sherlock’s strides.

“No need for such things. Not now, anyways. I’ve travelled all night and I need to rest.”

John nodded, and seemed to consider his options. “Do you have a place to stay? If not, my house is big and empty, it could easily host you.”

Sherlock was about to rudely decline the offer, but then he stopped his tongue and said instead. “I won’t need it, thank you. I have already found an inn, and I will stay there for a while.”

Again, the soldier nodded, and seemed a bit disappointed. Silence fell between them for the second time, until they did reach the inn.

“I suppose I will see you tomorrow.” Sherlock said.

“Yes… Yes, of course!” John said, a bit taken aback. Then he smiled widely, and shook his head. “Sorry, I… I thought you still wanted to get rid of me. I noticed, you know.”

Oh, he was also observant, then. “I’ve changed my mind. You might be useful.” Sherlock shrugged.

“I will prove you that I am.” the soldier smiled. “Well, good rest, then. Until tomorrow!” he said, starting to walk away waving at him.

Sherlock returned with a small nod of his head and a brief wave, before entering the inn for the second time that day, directed to his room. As soon as he was in, he locked the door behind him and drew the curtains, taking off his cape and boots, curling his toes in delight at the sensation of stretching his wings out after keeping them cramped up so long. He’d better get used to it. Right after, he left his satchel on a hook behind the door, and did nothing more than flopping down on the bed tiredly. He curled himself under the blankets and closed his eyes, his last thoughts as sleep took him being about needing to be more careful from now on, an intuitive doctor, and an already overly-attached soldier vowed to protect him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I had it written down already but couldn't be bothered to edit it, so forgive some mistakes that could still be present. Enjoy!

Sherlock woke up to a firm knock at his door, and he turned groggily towards the window to see what time of the day it was, finding the curtains drawn. He frowned a bit at that, before realization clicked in: he wasn’t home anymore, but in London. In a inn to be precise, yes, and the voice coming from the other side of the door was of the keeper, Angelo. Good, yes.

“Oi, I get that you travelled at night, but either you start working or you pay me your first night in!” he said, not impolitely but still with the tone any boss would have, even the more indulgent.

Sherlock groaned and pulled the duvet over his head, his spoiled body yet not ready to get up.

“Yes, fine, I’ll be downstairs in a moment!” he said eventually. Better not have Angelo checking up on him.

This seemed to convince the man, because Sherlock could hear him walk away and heavily down the creaking stairs. A couple of minutes later Sherlock was getting up and stretching for good, putting on his boots before using the chamber pot. Then he slipped his cape back on, washing his face in a bowl full of cold water he failed to notice in the corner when he fell asleep. He had been tired, after all.

Right after his morning routine, he opened the curtains and noticed the afternoon glow telling him that it must have actually been something past six in the afternoon. He groaned again at the thought but hurried downstairs, where a bowl of hot soup and a pint of ale seemed to be waiting for him on one of the long tables. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked confusedly at Angelo, who smiled at him.

“I can’t get you to work with an empty stomach, can I?” he said, chuckling when the tall man sat down hastily and started digging in his food. It must have been almost a day since he last ate, after all.

Sherlock’s education permitted him to eat hurriedly and still in a somewhat elegant manner, enjoying the rich flavour of the vegetables in the creamy soup and relaxing at the bitter taste of the ale. By the end of the dish, he was cleaning the bowl up with a slice of bread, and he had to refrain from licking his fingers. Refreshed by the meal he sighed contently, smiling loosely at Angelo.

“Really delightful, I have never tasted something like that. Are you sure there were only vegetables in?” he asked, and the older man laughed.

“Oh yes, just vegetables and spices! A secret recipe of my family- well, it is secret to Englishmen. My people know it well.” he revealed, satisfied at the other’s appreciation.

“Ah, yes, I had heard about Italian’s cooking skills. You do keep up their reputation.”

Angelo laughed again before clapping his hands together.

“Well, if you’re sated now I suggest you to start sweeping the floor. Then the tables and chairs, per favore.”

To his own surprise, Sherlock was on his feet soon after Angelo’s ‘advice’, his belly full enough to actually make him conetnt of working. It was a reasonable price if he got to eat like that every day. So, despite having never held a broom, Sherlock set up a quick pace of cleaning the floor, lifting the chairs over the tables to sweep under them, setting then to carefully scrape the wooden surfaces so they were almost shining in the sun-setting light.

By the time he had finished, Angelo had lit several candles to keep the room enlightened, and Sherlock headed to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Even though the inn keeper had said nothing about that, he wanted to do it anyways. He felt a surge of energy rushing through him, as if the hot soup had replaced his blood and recharged his forces, the ale sweeping most of the heaviness of his limbs like he had the dust over the furniture.

“Sherlock, this place has never been so clean!” Angelo praised him when he entered back in the main room, smiling widely at the good job he had done and turning towards the kitchen, where he found the man with his elbows in a deep bowl filled with soapy water.

“I thought I should have make it up for the time I spent sleeping. Hope you don’t mind?”

Angelo chuckled and clapped one hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, causing him to pale. Close, too close.

“Don’t worry, you did it, son!”

“Thank you.” was all he could murmur back.

Luckily enough, a stray boy chose that moment to sneak into the kitchen by the back door, his dirty hands reaching out for a loaf of bread. He was already licking his lips, eyes widened by hunger, when Angelo grabbed his wrists and stopped him, snatching the bread from under his nose.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, dragging the boy out of the door.

Up to that moment, Sherlock had only heard of poverty. He had never witnessed it, his home too far and isolated in the country to be reached by starving beggars or wandering women. He felt bad for the boy, but what could he do? Perhaps he could tell something to Angelo, he didn’t seem a cruel man, and frankly Sherlock was surprised by the way he was treating the poor lad.

“You know that you lot have to pass by before the sun rises!” he said, tearing the bread apart and giving half of it to the boy. “Here, and try to remember it next time!”

Sherlock watched the small boy smile gratefully before running away, and smiled when Angelo sighed.

“Really, I don’t ask them to read the meridians, but they could at least remember to glance up at the sky!”

Sherlock said nothing and kept his work on, but he couldn’t hide his smirk. Passing by, Angelo tapped him behind his head affectionately.

“You did good, son. Go to bed.”

This time, Sherlock broke in a full-on grin.

Once he was back to his room, he didn’t set to bed immediately. Instead he opened the curtains and the window, staring at the bright half-moon that accompanied his journey and let the cool breeze caress him as he laid on the bed. After all, knowing a soldier’s habits, he would have to wake up at dawn.

And indeed he had, but not how he imagined. There was no sunlight tapping at his eyelids, but there was a soft tapping from the door. He opened his groggy eyes and looked around, not as confused as the evening before by his surroundings, but frowning at the door.

“Who is it?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Oh, er… It’s John.” came the reply, muffled by the door. “I hope you don’t mind if I asked the keeper where your room was?”

Sherlock sighed and threw an arm over his eyes. “Yes, come in.” he said finally, sitting up as the door opened with a light creak.

Sherlock turned towards it in time to see the cheerful smile on his soldier’s face morph into a stupefied expression as he stared at his spread wings once again. He swung his legs down the side of the bed and stood up, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders before glancing briefly at the window. Oh, of course, his room faced west. He would need to remember it and ask Angelo to wake him up the next day.

“I’m sorry I woke you up.” John said as if on a cue, and from his expression it was clear he was wondering if he should have bowed to him. Perhaps he could have this man to wake him up every day?

“It’s alright, I had planned to wake up early anyways. I thought the sun would do that for me, though.” he said with a small shrug, his feet slipping in his boots as he once again moved to wash his face.

Then he turned again towards John, waiting for him to understand what he wanted. He raised an eyebrow, but the soldier only tilted his head confusedly to the side.

“Do you mind? I need to use the loo.” he said in the end.

“Oh! Right, sorry!” John said then, realization hitting him as he hurried out of the door. “I’ll be right here!” he said, closing it behind him.

Sherlock groaned, wondering again if it would be a good idea to have John around all the time or if he should find a way to dismiss him. He changed his shirt for a lighter one and donned his cape, the faint voice of a woman singing a lullaby to her child reaching his ears as he retrieved his satchel and opened the door. He found John there, staring out of the hallway’s opened window, his gaze lost in the distance of an old memory. Sherlock pursed his lips as he felt yet again a pang of respect surging in his chest as he cleared his throat and John snapped out of his daze, straightening his back and smiling openly at him in a way Sherlock would have defined brave for some reason.

“So. Where are we headed today?” John asked, following as Sherlock headed down the stairs.

“I was thinking a visit to the mayor churches would be useful. If you don’t mind.” he added as an afterthought, knowing John must have had them all mapped in his head.

“Of course I don’t!” he said in fact, and Sherlock smirked.

“Very well. Which one’s the closer?” he said by the door, which was where Angelo stopped him.

“Sherlock, wait!” his voice called, and the man moved around the counter to hand him a bundle containing some fresh bread and cheese.

He frowned as he took it, looking up at Angelo. “I thought we said one meal per day?”

“Yes, but you are better than I thought and I don’t want you fainting in the middle of a street for not having a proper lunch!”

Gratefulness welled up in Sherlock’s chest, and he found himself smiling when he would have liked to tell him that, really, he didn’t need to eat more than once a day. Instead, he put the food in his satchel and bowed his head. “Thank you, Angelo.”

The inn keeper waved a hand at him to dismiss the two of them, and as they exited the building Sherlock noticed John staring at him oddly.

“I’m working here in change of shelter.” Sherlock explained.

“Oh.” was all John said. Then, after a moment: “My offer is still up.”

“No, it’s fine. I like Angelo and the place is fine- and you should have a taste at his cuisine.”

Sherlock followed John as he quickly moved in the intricate maze of London’s alleys, watching closely the way he moved his left leg, as if testing its working. After ten minutes of walk at a good pace he seemed to slow down, settling for keeping up with Sherlock’s longer steps. Few moments later, they stopped in front of a pristine building that seemed entirely craved out of marble, and Sherlock looked in awe at the statues hovering on the doors, steeples and windows. When he entered, the fine and elegant architecture captured his eyes, so different from the simple country church he was forced to attend to in his home town. Of course it wasn’t as elegant or big as he knew Westminster Abbey to be, but it was indeed beautiful on its own.

“St. Mary. Nice, isn’t it?” John said simply, his quiet voice echoing in the empty room. They both moved towards the bowls containing holy water, Sherlock as reluctant as John was devoted, and crossed themselves.

“I used to come here with my family. In particular on Christmas and other festivities.” he said, heading surely for a small wooden door on the side of the main hall.

Sherlock followed and waited for him to knock on the wood, then for the door to open. When it did, an old nun’s face greeted them cheerfully, recognizing John.

“My boy!” she cried, resting her hands over John’s shoulders. Despite his short height, she almost had to stand on her tiptoes to reach him.

“Sister Lauren, how long!” he said, smiling at the woman.

“Oh, I didn’t think I would have seen you after that dreadful war. Warriors don’t usually pray to the Holy Virgin, do they?” she asked, inviting them in.

“That’s true, but how could I have missed visiting you and the other Sisters?” he asked, resting his hand on her back to help her walking, a fragile hand wrapping around his forearm.

“We would have all been disappointed in you if you didn’t.” she chuckled, and John nodded.

“How’s Mother Rita?”

“Oh, God called her to him last month.”

“I’m sorry to hear…”

Sherlock huffed at the small talk the two were keeping up, and it was then that the old woman turned to stare blankly at him. His face fell, eyes wide and mouth open almost in shock.

“I see you brought a friend.” she said, and Sherlock couldn’t understand how: she was blind.

“Yes, Sister. This is Sherlock, he’s a scholar. Just arrived in London to do some research.” John said, and the nun turned her head towards him with a knowing smirk.

“Ah, so this isn’t just a courtesy visit?”

John’s ears turned a dark shade of pink as he looked away. “Well, it is for me. He’s the one here for the books. I thought I could just spend the day with you ladies.”

Sister Lauren laughed softly and Sherlock followed them silently. How could she know who it was at the door if she couldn’t see him? She didn’t know Sherlock was present, but was that due to the surprise at having John in front of her?

“He’s a terribly quiet lad, isn’t he?” she asked to John, who laughed.

“Not really, no.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said, dumbfounded. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. It’s a pleasure, Sister.” he said politely, as John helped guiding the woman towards the refectory.

“Nice to meet you, boy.” she replied, letting John open the door where a group of twenty or so women were sitting at the tables, praying.

“Look which lamb came back to us!” Sister Lauren said cheerfully, and the group of elderly ladies all glanced up towards them, surprised at someone interrupting their prayers. But their mood changed as soon as they took sight of John: then they all stood up, even the younger ones, to greet him and hug the soldier back.

Sherlock smiled fondly at the scene of John practically being submerged by the flood of nuns who wanted to touch him like he was some sort of saint. Some patted his head, others grabbed and kissed his hands, others managed to hug him fully, and throughout this process John kept laughing. Sherlock’s heart warmed up a bit at the thought that he must have been educated by them.

Only one woman stood in the back, eying Sherlock more than John, curiously. He looked back at her, narrowing his eyes when she smirked. Quite uncharacteristic for a nun.

“John, this is Mother Irene. She’s from St. Paul’s church.” Sister Lauren introduced him to the smirking woman, who soon smiled at him and joined her hand as if in prayer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot of stories about you. Sister Alice probably hasn’t stopped talking about you since you left for the war. Glad to see you did it back.” she said.

Something in her tone was amiss, but Sherlock couldn’t understand what it was and he ignored it.

“Sisters, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes!” John said after he had finished with the welcomes back, introducing him. “He is a scholar and need to consult your library for his research. I’m sure you will all be more than glad to give us free access to it?”

All the women agreed enthusiastically, but Mother Irene lifted a hand. “If you don’t mind, I’ll guide him. I believe you have all something to say to John, don’t you?” she said, and again they all agreed.

“Very well.” she turned towards Sherlock and pointed to a large door on the other side of a small yard with a well in its middle. “This way.”

Sherlock followed as he heard the nuns asking John how he was, and if something good had happened to him.

“You might not believe it, but… I’ve met an angel!”

“Oh! You finally fell in love?”

“What- no, I didn’t mean that!”

Sherlock could almost hear his blush as he distressedly explained how he was blessed for surviving his wounds. He was careful to avoid rolling his eyes – this woman’s gaze reminded him of Malcolm Hooper’s. Bright, clever, and far too curious for his liking. The last thing he needed was a _nun_ finding out about his secret.

“So, Mr. Holmes. I think I’ve heard that name before… What are you researching?” she asked casually, but Sherlock wasn’t easy to fool.

“I have been hearing legends about people being born with wings, but I can’t believe them. So I decided to come to London and study the subject on my own, to find out the truth. Even if that’s quite obvious.” he added, glancing at the woman few steps in front of him.

Her figure, though clad in the dark cloth all nuns wore, seemed far more elegant and graceful than it should.

“A man of science rather than one of faith? I think I like it.” she said, a smirk clear in her voice.

“I believe to what can be demonstrated with science more than what dead people claimed to have seen centuries ago, yes. Hope that’s not too heretic for here? Not many places hold as much books as churches do.”

“No, you’re right. I don’t believe it either.”

Sherlock raised both eyebrows and the woman turned to smirk at him, saying nothing more. When they entered the not as big as he hoped library, Sherlock started looking at the books like the starved boy from the evening before watched the bread Angelo gave him, his fingers itching with the need of running over rough paper. Another nun approached them with a small smile on her lips, and Mother Irene held out a hand to point at Sherlock.

“Sister Minerva, this man needs to consult our books. I believe you will help him finding what he needs?”

The nun smiled and nodded. “Of course, as long as I know what is it he needs.”

“Minerva, like the goddess of wisdom and knowledge. A very fitting name.” Sherlock said with a small bow of his head, and the woman giggled.

“I do my best.” she answered, and went to retrieve the books holding the information Sherlock asked her about.

“So you do have a way with women.” Mother Irene mused, her blue eyes sparkling with interest, like a cat’s.

“I have no reason to charm them, usually.” was his dry answer, and before she could say much more he dug himself in the shelves of handwritten books, falling in a state of such deep concentration that he forgot Irene was even there in the first place, which irritated her.

It wasn’t before more than an hour later than John entered the room, smiling broadly. “Sister Minerva, Mother Irene, it’s time for the morning prayers!” he said cheerfully, and while the first nodded and left the room the latter held up a hand, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s focused form.

“I’ll get to them later.” she said from her spot on the table she was sitting on, as concentrated as the man was.

This put John on his guard a bit, and he called out at Sherlock. He didn’t seem to notice his presence until John shook his shoulder, which earned him a good glare back.

“What do you want?” he said, irritably.

“The Sisters asked us to join them for breakfast.” he said, his resolution waving a bit.

Sherlock blinked and looked around, seeming unaware of the time. “Well, then you should join them.” he said finally, turning back to the tome he was reading.

John scratched the back of his neck, frustration showing on his face under the form of a slightly pink flush. “Well, alright then. I’ll bring you something.” he muttered to himself, turning towards Irene. “You too, Mother?”

“I’m fine.” she said, smiling at him. “Go, boy.”

John nodded and left.

“It must be tiring to concentrate so much and for so long on something.” she said, sliding off the table and striding towards Sherlock. At first he ignored that, glancing only briefly at her, but he had to redirect his gaze over the woman as he noticed the way she moved her hips. His eyes flicked to her face, and she smirked.

“What is a woman like you doing dressed as a nun?” he asked, a smirk of his own on his face.

“I am a nun. But I tend to misbehave.” she replied calmly, and Sherlock stood up to look down at her: women had the vice to think themselves so clever, hadn’t they?

“Then I should ask, how does a woman like you avoid being dismissed from her role and possibly burnt as witch?”

“I told you, I misbehave. Moreover, I know the Cardinal; or rather, I know what he likes.” she winked, and Sherlock found himself backing off when she kept approaching him. His hand moved over the table, until his fingers felt wood under them and his bottom hit another desk that trapped him.

“Yes, I bet you do.” he said, staring down at Irene, trying to understand her. She was younger than it seemed under her robes, but she clearly knew her way in life and it certainly wasn’t made of prayers and chastity.

“What about you?” she said, her hands resting close to Sherlock’s one, clasped on the desk’s edge. Then, as she pressed her body against his, Irene murmured: “Will I get to know what you like?”

In that moment, John opened the door to the library with his arms full of fruits he almost let fall at the sight in front of him. Mother Irene turned to watch him, smirking, and Sherlock didn’t spare him a single glance.

“You should not…” John started, but then closed his mouth at a loss of anything to say.

“Don’t worry, I won’t play with him; I know you and posh boy here are an item. Though it would be so interesting…” Irene said, looking back up at Sherlock.

“We are not- that’s not what I meant!” John’s ears coloured themselves pink once again, but he didn’t look away. “You shouldn’t, you are, I mean-... I’ll just leave you alone.” he said in the end, taking a step back.

Sherlock glared at him, and John stilled immediately. Irene smiled, and looked as if she was having lots of fun.

“I can see how ‘you’re not’. Pity, he’s a pretty one.” she said, drawing back. Both men relaxed visibly as she took one of the apples John laid on the desk where Sherlock’s book was still opened.

“I met him yesterday.” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“And you’re already following him like the loyal boy you are. What does this say about your relationship?” Irene said, biting on the fruit.

“I…” once again John started to talk, but Sherlock stopped him abruptly.

“Enough.” he said. The last thing he needed was for this woman to know his secret, too. “Mother Irene, I think you should join the others for the morning prayers.”

“Very well. It’s been a pleasure, posh boy.” she said, smirking at him and winking at John. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

With that, she left. John huffed a sigh and rubbed his face with one hand, clearly embarrassed by her allusions. Sherlock sat back down mumbling something under his breath, any sign of distress eased away from his features. He had learnt something about that woman, and he would remember about it for future use. The both of them settled in a comfortable silence as Sherlock resumed his readings, and John sat across from him on a tall chair at the table, spending his time glancing at the hardcover books.

“Can you read?” Sherlock asked after a while, startling the other.

“What? I, yes, I’ve been taught to, here. But I’m not very good at it. In the army only few things needed to be read.” he admitted, looking at the other.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate to hold out a piece of paper with some names scribbled on it in a neat calligraphy.

“I want you to find these books for me. They are on the list the librarian gave me, so they should be around here. Please.” he asked, and John took the paper glad to be of some use to the other.

They set up a quiet rhythm of finding, passing, reading and putting books back on their shelves, John eating some of the fruits he had brought for their breakfast. He experimentally rolled one apple toward Sherlock’s concentrated form, and smiled amusedly when he absentmindedly picked it up and took a morsel out of it, frowning at his hand as if it had betrayed him and then glaring at John. The soldier held his arms up in a silent apology before turning back to his actual duty, traces of fondness still lingering over his face. Sherlock sighed but kept eating the apple, and his stomach rumbled as if grateful to have the soldier to take care of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more long chapter with nothing but meeting the characters or two, maybe, and then the story will pick its pace up a bit. Thank you all for your patience!


	4. Note To Readers

I can't believe it's been three and a half bloody years since I last wrote for this story.

I tried to, so many times, but after my laptop was stolen (and all my writing progresses with it) about two years ago, I sort of lost motivation to go on.

But, I promise, no matter how slowly, I do want to finish this story, and so many more that I left in half or, even worse, are just drafts languishing in my folders (and on Google Drive; I learnt from my mistakes, even though the day the laptop was stolen I had decided to put all my stuff on there for back up... what luck, eh?).

I will revise old chapters and keep writing, because I want to share this story with all you guys. I'll try to balance work, uni and fic-writing (other than actual, "real world" writing) and I'll share all of my ideas with the rest of the fandom, because that's sort of my dream.

Please, be patient with me for a while longer. Hopefully it'll be worth your while. And there might be an update sooner than later!

**Author's Note:**

> Please, consider buying me a coffee on [my ko-fi page](http://ko-fi.com/stravaganza)! I'd really appreciate your support!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [On the Side of the Angels - Book Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/685693) by [stravaganza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza)




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